General Ishmael was the only leader in the Prime Minister’s circle that Kamar could stand. The man wasn’t pompous and rude, and he actually cared for something other than inciting the misery of others.

Nibbling at the cheese samosa on a stick, Ishmael regarded them with his usual indifference.

Kamar squeezed Malik’s arm. “General, we were just talking about the fruit Malik sells at his stall. It’s from Djanna, and it’s delectable. I believe the chef is preparing it for dessert tonight.”

At the sound of “dessert,” the General stopped his nibbling. Dropping the stick on his plate, he accepted the napkin Kamar held out to him.

“Djannian fruit?” the General’s lips twitched, his tongue cleaning crumbs at the corner of the mouth. “I wasn’t aware we were importing such goods.”

“I have a connection,” Malik rumbled, and when that sounded too dramatic, he filled in, “I’m from Djanna.”

“You are?” Kamar blurted. Embarrassed that his surprise popped out like that, he added, “Of course you are.” Clearly they hadn’t gotten that far in their relationship. Now that Kamar thought about it, he didn’t know much about Malik. On the other hand, Malik knew a ton about him.

Maybe too much, Kamar thought as despondence and doubt settled in.

The only thing that kept him rooted in the conversation was his desire to find Jibril. Otherwise he’d be dragging Malik off to another corner, maybe his bedroom this time, for a long, cozy chat.

Ishmael looked between them, his expression monotonous. He picked up the samosa stick and cleaned it. Dabbing at his lips with the napkin, he covered his mouth and burped.

“I’ve been to Djanna only once, in the eighties, when a different king sat as its head,” he said, smacking his lips. “It was a beautiful country then.”

“It still is, I assure you,” Malik said.

Ishmael nodded. “I believe you.” He gave the party a cursory look, his hand reaching for the champagne glass on the table beside him. Tipping his glass at the gaggle of guests, he drawled, “It has to be better than this…scene.”

While Kamar opened his mouth to agree, Malik shrugged.

“I couldn’t fairly use this party as a comparison,” Malik told him. “I’ve been to parties like these in Djanna. The atmosphere isn’t any different.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if the King of Djanna invites me to dinner then,” Ishmael joked. Only it was hard to tell if it was a joke when his mouth remained in its steadfast line and his tone persisted in its flatness.

His face had grown wistful for a moment. Kamar blinked and Malik’s features straightened, the thread of nostalgia easing off his furrowed brow and downturned mouth. Whatever had passed was now gone, but the intrigue lingered in Kamar’s chest. It fluttered in time with his quickening heart.

Realizing their conversation flagged when Ishmael turned to the table of appetizers again, Kamar hurried to gain the General’s attention again.

“How would you like to sample dessert, sir?”

Ishmael spun in earnest, his expression showing the first sign of emotion when his lips wriggled at the corners.

“Sample?” he echoed.

“I’ve heard of your culinary expertise from my father.” Kamar cringed, knowing Hell would freeze over before his father offered anyone a compliment. Pushing on, he showered the General with whatever Kamar thought he’d like to hear–whatever would get him to the kitchen fastest.

“If you’re offering,” Ishmael trailed off, waiting for Kamar to lead him to the proffered dessert samples.

He had to release Malik’s arm, but Kamar gave him a look that insisted he follow them. After all, he didn’t trust himself to get any hints at Jibril’s location from the General all alone. Besides, Malik had opened the door of trust. To be honest, a part of Kamar wanted an excuse for Malik to share more details about his life.

Who was he before he started selling his edible wares here in Zhebair? What kind of man left a supposed paradise in Djanna? His tone when talking about their neighboring nation suggested he missed his home. Was it his home, or was Djanna another pit stop?

Kamar’s head pounded with the firing of questions. His synapses were working overtime, all right, only not on the important matter of locating Jibril.

Finding the chef, Kamar explained how he’d set aside some dessert samples. He had planned this before.

Once he remembered how General Ishmael frequented his father’s parties, despite it being obvious that Ishmael would rather be anywhere else. Kamar had always suspected the man came back for the food…It was the one thing his father had done right at his dinners.

“Go ahead,” Kamar urged, setting down the tray and picking up his own saucer of poached Djannian fruit. Drizzled with honey and dappled with almonds, it was visually delectable…and absolutely mouthwatering.

Kamar moaned softly, his fluttering eyes opening sharply when he realized where he was still. He swallowed and laughed nervously. “Oops, got carried away.”

Ishmael was busy forking a bite into his mouth. The man was full concentration. It buzzed off him. Which left Malik…

Kamar gulped, suddenly wishing for a glass of ice water.

Malik’s dark eyes were glued to his mouth. When they flickered up to Kamar’s stare, he smiled, and, God, if his lips didn’t quirk up in a sexy show.

Kamar melted. He was about ready to fan his flushed cheeks if that cold water couldn’t be found. Malik picked up his own saucer, but he kept his gaze on Kamar while he had a taste of the night’s planned dessert.

Malik sucked in his lips, slowly, temptingly. Kamar’s mouth popped open, his hands quivering, his foot sliding forward to seal the distance between them. Of course, he’d have to get around Ishmael who took that moment to lift his head and regard them.

“This is…” he trailed off for another bite, contemplative chew and swallow. “Tangy.” He nodded, tilting his head. “But also flavorful. The honey brings out the tarty juices of the fruit. It’s arrayed nicely.”

Malik didn’t hide his confusion.

Kamar grinned. Catching his lover’s eyes, he mouthed, “He likes it.”

Malik nodded to show he understood. Taking a page out of Ishmael’s book then, they both dove in to clean the saucer of the poached fruit.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Ishmael passed his saucer to Kamar who set it aside for the cleaning staff. “I’m sure this will be the highlight of my evening.” As he said it, he grimaced when the volume from the party outside reached them in the quietly bustling kitchen.

The staff followed a long list of the Prime Minister’s orders, including keeping quiet and off to the side. As long as they worked here, they had to pretend to be invisible.

Kamar frowned at the noise, glad for some distraction. He hated when his thoughts lingered on his father. The man was a walking, talking headache. Kamar needed his head clear for Jibril.

“I wonder what’s happening,” Kamar mumbled, moving past Ishmael and Malik. Ishmael had already wandered a little ways off to speak with the chef, perhaps about more food. Malik followed after Kamar.

They didn’t make it far before the lights went out and darkness had them in its clutch.

“Probably a fuse burned,” Malik said. He had gripped onto Kamar from behind when the lights abandoned them. Now the merchant’s hands molded over Kamar’s hip bones, kneading them gently.

“Too bad we couldn’t sneak off,” he murmured against Kamar’s flushed ear shell, his tongue darting out to stroke the flesh. “Unless, you’d like to…?”

“You’re shameless. People would hear us,” Kamar warned with a whisper. When Malik wouldn’t stop kissing and licking his throat, Kamar moaned, “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’ll stop if you stop.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Kamar breathed.

Malik chuckled. “True, but your ass is wriggling back into me, and it feels too damn good.”

Kamar’s hips were softly gyrating against Malik’s thick bulge nevertheless. His poor cock, Kamar thought, laughter bubbling out.

They held each other like that until the screaming started.

Kamar didn’t know how he could go from being lanced with fiery desire to being prodded by white-hot fear. Malik pulled him back, probably in the direction of the kitchen if Kamar could see.

“Don’t you have a generator?” Malik asked.

“We should.” Kamar wondered why it hadn’t kicked on. The fear doubled when he realized what was happening. “That’s if the generator hasn’t been tampered with.”

“Shit,” Malik muttered.

They were in the kitchen again. Ishmael had heard Malik and called to them, his voice growing nearer.

“What’s going on out there?” he sounded urgent now, uncharacteristic. Kamar would have been interested to see what his face looked like, considering the general worked stoicism perfectly. Naturally they were all concerned by the obviously unplanned blackout.

Before he could reply to the general, Kamar yelped.

A loud pop sounded from the front where the screaming increased, washing over Kamar like a strong wave.

Malik gripped him harder, his chest now flush with Kamar’s back, and his breath, hot and fast, breezing over the back of Kamar’s head.

“Everybody shut up!” the voice boomed like it came from the kitchen. There was a crackle, and then Kamar realized it had to be a megaphone. There was also the niggling sensation that he’d heard that voice before.

“Now, if you don’t want to die, you’ll all sit down and keep quiet,” the voice demanded.

Malik squeezed Kamar, his lips brushing his ear. “Suleiman.”

That name had Kamar clenching his teeth. Of course the evening’s party-crashers were the rebels. He should have known when Malik reminded him about the generator. One thing still bothered him. Malik jumped on it first.

“How did they know about the party?”